Page 1 of Skin and Bones

CHAPTER

ONE

I had no plans to become a widow at the tender age of twenty-four.

I also had no plans to own a tea shop on a sleepy South Carolina island, but I’ve discovered life doesn’t give two figs about my plans. Life on Grimm Island taught me that lesson. Here, the oak trees drip with Spanish moss and secrets hang just as heavy in the humid air.

The Perfect Steep—my tea shop and little kingdom of mismatched chairs and vintage tea pots—sat on the corner of Harbor and Lighthouse. From the outside, it was Grimm Island gentility personified—soft blue paint with crisp white trim, black shutters, and a sweeping wraparound porch where two rocking chairs waited patiently as if ready for Southern hospitality itself.

Inside was a different story entirely. Inside was pure me.

My name is Mabel McCoy, and I’d done a good job of pretending to be gentility personified since my husband died ten years ago. But I’d noticed lately there were times when I was starting to feel a bit frayed around the edges, and I wondered how long it would be before people started to notice.

My tea shop was what I affectionately called organized chaos with a tea obsession, a phrase that would have made Patrick smile if he’d lived to see it. Shiplap walls that should have been pristine white were instead painted a pale yellow on one wall, mint green on another, and a soft lavender on the third—the result of my inability to choose just one color and my stubborn refusal to start over once I’d begun. The heart pine floors creaked like they were telling secrets, especially in the three spots by the register that I’d learned to hop over during busy hours.

Ceiling fans with blades shaped like giant leaves spun lazily overhead, stirring the air that always smelled of whatever tea blend I was experimenting with that day. Today it was something with bergamot and cinnamon that made the whole place smell like Christmas morning, even in the middle of May.

I glanced at the hideous cherub clock on the wall—a wedding gift from Patrick’s grandmother that I couldn’t bring myself to take down despite its beady-eyed stare. Five thirty. The afternoon crowd had thinned out, and I had about thirty minutes before the Silver Sleuths would arrive for their monthly book club meeting.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and smoothed back a stray blond curl. At least the island’s humidity was good for something—my vintage waves actually seemed to like it. I reapplied my red lipstick, the one bit of glamour I never skipped, and hummed along with Frank Sinatra as he sang “I Get a Kick Out of You” through the speakers.

I’d just finished boxing up a special tea blend to deliver to Mrs. Pembroke when the bell above the door jingled. Deputy Mark Reynolds strolled in, his uniform crisp despite the late hour, that easy smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Just in time,” I said. “It’s almost closing time.”

“My timing’s always been impeccable,” he replied, removing his hat. His rust-colored hair had gone silver at the temples since I’d known him, but his pale blue eyes still held that same kindness they had since I’d been a kid. “Got any of that cinnamon tea left? Been a day.”

“For you? Always.” I turned to prepare his usual as he settled onto his regular stool at the counter. “Rough shift?”

Reynolds sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Milton left us a mess to clean up. This new sheriff’s asking a lot of questions and digging through files none of us even knew existed.”

“And that’s a problem?” I asked, sliding his to-go tea across the counter.

“Can’t say I blame him,” he said. “But it’s just stirring up the past. Sheriff Milton did a lot of damage and people are hurting. He even went through the case files from when those three girls went missing. That might have been before you were born. But those girls’ families still live on the island. No need to dredge it all up and put them through that again. Some things are better left buried, if you ask me.”

He took a sip of tea and closed his eyes in appreciation. “Perfect as always, Mabel. Don’t know what I’d do without my evening fix.”

I smiled. Reactions like his to my teas were my favorite part of the job. It might seem boring by most people’s standards, but I didn’t need much. I considered myself a simple, easygoing woman.

“So how’s the new sheriff working out?” I asked, wiping down the counter.

“Beckett?” Reynolds shrugged. “By the book. Bit of an outsider, but seems decent enough. Time will tell if he sticks around.” He glanced at his watch. “Guess my break is over. You closing up for your book club tonight?”

“How did you know about that?” I asked, though I wasn’t really surprised. Nothing stayed secret on Grimm Island for long.

He tapped the side of his nose and said, “Hey, I’m a cop. I know things.” He finished his tea and slid a five-dollar bill across the counter.

“On the house,” I told him.

He put the five in the tip jar anyway and gave me a wink. “See you tomorrow.”

As the door chimed behind him, I went to clear china cups from a corner table, wiping it down and giving my last customer a side-eye because he’d been sitting there for three hours and kept filling up his teacup with whatever was in the thermos he’d brought from home. I was getting ready to shoo him along when he hurriedly shoved his things in his bag and hurried out the door.

“Rude,” I said, cleaning up his mess. “Almost time, Chowder,” I said to my French bulldog, who was sprawled across the window seat, his wrinkled face looking particularly judgmental today. “The Silver Sleuths will be here soon.”

Chowder snorted and rolled onto his back, his stubby legs in the air.

“I’ll take that as excitement. Just try not to con Walt out of all his treats this time. You know what the vet said about your cholesterol.”

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